


The Heart Wants What it Wants

by taylorswift



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, RPF - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, major tears ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3098885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylorswift/pseuds/taylorswift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"D’you suppose if say, just sitting here I drank a whole lot of something strong, it would be like some Hollywood cliche and I’d spill my guts in the most beautifully tragic way you could ever imagine? Before, you know, actually spilling my guts."</p>
<p>They were doomed from the start, so might as well make a bed that they could lie in with each other, and make it real comfortable for when they're left to lie there alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart Wants What it Wants

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr, but I figured why not share the love? These two will be the death of me. Based off of Selena Gomez's "The Heart Wants What it Wants", which is now haunting me thanks to this fic.

Their first proper meeting is on a plane ride back from Comic Con, after their introduction as the Avengers at the Marvel panel. He’s sitting in his seat, deep in thought and eyes trained on her as she laughs and jokes around with Downey. He’s met her before but it was a rather awkward situation; something like this one now that he thinks about it—stares at her, short conversation that can’t last more than thirty seconds and then they go their separate ways. Except this time, she’s not going anywhere. They’re all stuck thousands of feet in the air, and it feels as though there’s all the time in the world.

"Renner!" Downey thunders, startling Jeremy from his train of thought. He twists his head, facing him and Scarlett, the both of them staring at him almost amused. Downey gestures in Scarlett’s direction, the sheepish smile on her face the greatest thing he’s seen all day—even past the masses at Comic Con cheering them on. "You know Little Red, don’t you?"

"Rob, my hair’s blonde," she reminds him, to which he responds to by ruffling her hair heinously.

"You’re going to have to get it dyed sooner or later, probably sooner; might as well start back up with the nickname," he responds. He then focuses back on Jeremy, Scarlett mimicking the motion. "Back to you, Renner; you know Scarlett?"

Jeremy taps his chin, shrugging. “We’ve met before but I can’t say that I know her like you do,” he muses. Downey’s eyes are lit up like little Christmas trees, gesturing towards Scarlett grandly.

"Well here’s your chance, big guy!" he says, slapping his hands down on the arm rests of the seat and pulling himself out of the chair. "She’s all yours." With an overly exaggerated wink, he saunters on to another part of the plane, probably to go and pester one of the Chrises.

Scarlett chuckles, recapturing the attention he’d let follow Downey away. “Oh what, you’re interested in knowing about me?” she smirks, her voice teasing him. His interest piques as he sits up a little bit straighter; she’s already proving to be much more than just a pretty face. Of course, that’s what all the rumors about her said—Scarlett Johansson was more than just her stunning looks and to let yourself be fooled by her was walking into the devilishly sharp trap her tongue would set.

"Course I am," he replies, just as mysteriously. Resting his chin atop a balled up fist, he stares at her with intrigue in his eyes. "Tell me something about you, something that’s worth my time of course."

She scoffs playfully. “Worth your time?”

"I’m a very busy man, Miss Johansson," he insists, relaxing the fist and lifting his other hand in a gesture of innocence. She lets out another appalled laugh.

"As if you have anywhere else to go, twenty thousand feet in the air."

"You’re losing time," he sings.

"Fine, fine," she says, waving her hand in dismissal. "Something about me?" There’s a pause as she ponders that, biting down on the corner of her lip. His eyes are glued to her, taking in every last mannerism and detail of her that he possibly can while she thinks. Something about her is addictive, more addictive than alcohol or any kind of drug could be. She shakes him from his rapidly derailing train of thought with her response, a smug look colored over that pretty little face of hers. "There’s never been a guy I can’t drink under a table."

Both eyebrows go up. “Not one guy?” he asks, understanding that in hindsight, she’s probably not bluffing, but for the sake of his own appearance, questions the fact.

"Not one."

"What about you?" she flips the question, mimicking his motion of resting her chin on a propped up arm. "What do I need to know about the great Mister Renner before I let him come near my throat with a dagger?"

Jeremy pauses for a moment, trying to think of something that’s worth spitting out. She’s moving at the speed of lightning with her answers, all quick and clever. There’s no question about it, keeping up with her is a challenge, but he secretly loves it. Shrugging one of his shoulders, he holds the propped up arm’s hand flat out, palm up. “I’m a musician.”

She chuckles. “I already knew that about you; Wikipedia knows your deepest darkest secrets too, you know,” she tells him.

"No no," he clarifies. "I write my own music; all kinds of songs and stuff."

"And stuff," she repeats dully.

"Making fun of me, are we now?"

"No," Scarlett dismisses airily, readjusting her chin’s position on her knuckles. "Would you ever write a song about me?" The way she asks is so innocent it’s sinful, her coy expression and tone enough to drive him up the sides of this airplane. She knows what she’s doing, wrapping him right around her finger like a coil and damn, is she going to let him go.

"Depends," he says, playing her little game right back. "You plan on breaking my heart, sweetheart?" Her eyes roll around in a circle, laughter falling out of her lips, and he eventually joins in.

He writes his first song about her later that night, after he gets back to his apartment.

. . .

She dyes her hair red for the Avengers, and he’s the first to see it. Granted, it has to do with the fact that he’s always early to practice so he can ensure he’s had enough time to warm up. Although, he can’t lie if anyone asks him if the whole reason he got there early was because of the flirty message she’d sent him the day before, taunting him about it. She’s already got him wrapped around her finger, and he doesn’t even know what her favorite color is.  
  
Scarlett turns out to be the ideal work partner, with her wit and dedication, as well as her emotional deliverance. She’s not one to hold anything back; he comes to find out, as she delivers punch after smack after hit to him. He is her personal punching bag, and his pride shrugs it off and tells her she doesn’t hurt, but it’s a lie. She leaves bruises _everywhere_. That constant challenging nature that rolls right off her tongue drives him to do better, forces him to push himself to the point where he can hardly pull himself off the floor after a practice spar. She’s tough, a trait he certainly hadn’t underestimated her having, but one that he hadn’t expected her to possess so much of in such a tiny little frame. She takes him down like it’s nothing, time after time after time again, without breaking a sweat. Each time she does, she gives him a coy smile and helps him off the mat. It’s a woman like her that’s designed to be his downfall.

It’s a good thing that she’s his costar and that the majority of his scenes are with her, because she’s the kind of person that it doesn’t take too terribly long to get accustomed to. Not to be confused with irritating, because that’s all she is—rubbing in the fact that she knows all of her lines and tries to drill him during fights to throw him off guard or sauntering past him with some sugary drink that she’s allowed to have and he isn’t, because of the godawful diet he’s already on, right at the time she knows that he’s craving a Red Bull. He likes to think about the things he’d do to her in order to put her in her place one of these days, but just like always, his mind takes it somewhere completely wrong. He has to stop himself from thinking of her, ever, because it turns out terribly.

All but racing to set to see her new red hair, he feels like a child. He gets to call dibs on the person to see it first, and it does feel childish, but in a way, it’s her own personal way of showing that she values their blossoming friendship. The fact that she’d used several red hearts and winky faces in the text message didn’t help his curiosity much either.

He almost doesn’t even recognize her when she walks in the gym, the red flames on top of her head so wild it can’t be her. “Well?” she yells across the space, distracting him from his weight lifting. She holds her hands out in a little gesture, pointing at the top of her head. “Is it what you expected?”

Jeremy swings his leg over the bench, chuckling. “Well, it’s certainly red,” he starts, rubbing his chin. He’s not entirely sure what to say. Red _suits_ her, it’s like it was the color created for her. What with her name being Scarlett probably a lot to do with it, he thinks about her wearing red dresses, red lipstick, red _lingerie_ —

“Renner, come back down to Earth,” she teases, and he quickly refocuses. “What, is the red too much for you?”

“Course not, sweetheart,” he fires back. “I hope you still have all of your brain cells left, what with all of those dye fumes around you. It sure would be a shame if you didn’t know how to fight me back.”

She’s thoroughly amused by this statement, the sparkle in her eye dangerous. “In your wildest dreams, old man.”

She pins him down in record time during their spar session, and he knows he’s a goner.

. . .

He finds her sitting alone at the bar, drumming her perfectly shaped nails along the surface and the other hand trailing around the neck of the beer in front of her. She looks bored; it’s probably because she’s trying to avoid the others. Whenever they get drunk, they tend to go wild. It’s usually no issue with her keeping up with them—she can drink every one of them under the table without batting an eyelash if she feels in the mood, just like he had promised—but lately, she’s not been her usual self. The Scarlett he knows. Sliding up onto the seat next to her, he gives her an overly cheerful grin. “Miss me, sweetheart?” he teases.

"In your dreams, old man," she jabs back, the twinkle in her eye still there as she brings the bottle up to her mouth, taking a slow swig.

He slides closer next to her, one of his elbows jutting out to nudge her playfully. “Any reason you’re all alone at the bar? I’m sure Hemsworth would love another sparring partner,” he offers, which earns him a rightful shove. He chuckles darkly, thinking about the previous night when the force that was Christopher Hemsworth and little, fragile Scarlett had spent a good twenty minutes rolling around Evans’ living room trying to give the other a black eye.

"Real funny, Renner," she drawls. "I don’t plan on letting him anywhere near my hair after two shots."

He nods understandingly, eyes never leaving her as he takes a slow swig of his drink. It’s strong, stronger than his usual because frankly, whenever she’s near him he needs for his mind to be numb and his thoughts blank. She swivels her body around in her chair, resting her head up on a balled up fist she’s got propped up on the bar. “Thought you’d be drinking with the boys, what brought you over here?” she croons, and he isn’t sure if she’s meaning to sound seductive or if the alcohol is playing mind games already.

"You," he shrugs. It’s a very simple answer, and somewhere inside his head there’s a warning that she won’t fully understand how much he means that. Perhaps he’s better off for it to turn out that way.

She laughs heartily, like the best joke in existence has rolled off his tongue and throws her drink back. “Good thing you want to talk to me, I was obviously having such a hard time keeping any company,” she jabs, rolling her eyes.

Jeremy relinquishes the bottle from a tight grip and holds up his hands in innocence. “Hey, if you don’t want me over here, I can always go back over there with Downey and the boys. Sounds to me like they’re striking off on a rousing rendition of 99 Bottles,” he offers, and she makes no moves in shoving him away or even getting up to leave herself. Instead, she raises an eyebrow teasing as she rests her bottle back on the table, leaning her face up against her propped up elbow.

"Tell me something," she proposes. Jeremy gestures for her to continue, both palms face up and extending towards her. "D’you suppose if say, just sitting here I drank a whole lot of something strong, it would be like some Hollywood cliche and I’d spill my guts in the most beautifully tragic way you could ever imagine? Before, you know, actually spilling my guts."

"Can’t say I could see you taking the coward’s way, but I suppose it could happen to anyone." Jeremy slides his stool a little closer to hers. "Penny for your thoughts?" he requests.

Scarlett shrugs, her gaze somewhere above the bar. “I don’t know. Everything is all jumbled in my head,” she ponders aloud.

"Sorry ‘bout that sweetheart, can’t help that Jossie-kins keeps rearranging the shooting schedules," Jeremy teases her, nudging her playfully with his elbow. He can see her crack a smile, and that’s enough for him. Seeing her smile is always something beautiful. "Seriously though, what’s been wrong with you? You’ve just been kind of…not Scarlett."

"Not Scarlett?" she repeats, the inquisitive smirk and twinkle in her eye reappearing.

"Yeah," he shrugs. "That pretty little smile of yours is hard to come by, you’re holing up in your trailer all the time in between takes like you’re avoiding us or something and now you’re sitting at the bar by yourself. Usually you and I are having shot contests to see who loses it first and as much as I hate to admit it, it’s usually me. Something’s bothering you, and I can see it." He pauses, then says, "I know you better than you know yourself sometimes."

She runs a hand back through her hair, sighing softly. There’s a silence before she adjusts herself in her seat so the two of them are face to face. “You ever wanted something so bad, but you just know that you can’t have it?” The words tumble out of her mouth rapidly, the beginnings of her slurs coming on. Obviously the drink in front of her is not her first. “You know that it’s a bad idea and that doing it is going to get you nowhere, but you keep at it because the pain’s bearable if you can live with the thought that at least it happened? And even though you need it like you need oxygen, you can’t ever push yourself over the point of no return because God forbid you ever do something for yourself, against your conscience’s will? Because it’s something that’s so stupid, so…so risky and insane that you’d have to be drunk off your ass in order to carry out because you’re terrified it’ll go so wrong. Do you think it would be worth it if you did go through with it, even if there’s a chance you wake up hungover the next morning and you don’t know if what happened was a dream or your imagination?”

Time spins a little bit slower, the music dragging out in his head as his heartbeat becomes audible inside his head, hammering away. There’s no telling what she could be talking about and what he’s trying to forget could be linked in any possible way, and maybe it’s just the alcohol buzzing, but he feels like it is. That there’s some connection between his desire for her and hers for, well, whatever it is that’s troubling her mind. His head is already screaming for him to return to reality, but his heart is racing way beyond tempo, already chasing after a rabbit down a very tight and exclusive hole. One that he knows he won’t be able to get himself down even if she does open the gap. It’s a struggle to relax his inner thoughts and string coherent words into sentences, but he manages to pull through.

"I-I, well," he stammers out. "I mean, yeah, I guess. Lot of times when you’re drunk you tend to do what you really want to do, it’s like the raw side of you trading places with your regular personality and doing things you wouldn’t do when you’re sober, but you’d want to otherwise. Alcohol is funny like that."

"But beyond the alcohol," she presses.

"Well, I-uh, I mean, yeah. If you want it, you gotta at least try. You can’t ever know if it’s worth it until you give it a shot." He spins the question back around to her, tipping his drink her way. "What about you; what do you think?"

She’s silent for a moment, lips pursed. “The heart wants what it wants,” she finally muses cryptically before bringing the bottle back up to her lips.

The words hang in the air, leaving a weight on his conscience as his brain races. She’s still thinking clearly through all the alcohol in her system, but his processes are already muddled and hazy. His eyes burn into her, trying to figure out what she could have possibly meant by that.

He finds out later that night.

. . .

There’s nothing more beautiful, he thinks, than a sunrise. Sunrise is always a pain in his ass on any given day; when you’ve been out drinking all night and the alcohol subdues you until at least noon, sunlight tends to give a headache for several hours and a few aspirin later. He associates sunrise with those goddamn birds that like to sit by his window—or wherever the hell it is that they congregate—and chirp loudly and endlessly. Sunrise is early, sunrise is bleak, sunrise is annoying.

But when he rolls over, sunlight just barely beginning to peek through the curtains and bouncing off the silhouette of something, someone lying there next to him, he absentmindedly moves his hands across the skin of the woman next to him with a faint smile brushing over his lips. With her, sunrises have beauty, sunrises are meaningful, sunrises are sacred. His number of them with her are limited and he never knows when they will all of a sudden be capped off, so he takes them in wholly and disregards any downside to being up at almost seven o’clock willingly after a long night of drinking.

One morning in particular, Scarlett’s eyelashes flutter, a low sigh pushing out of her as she stirs. As her eyes open, their focal point is him, the beginnings of a smile already drawing over her full lips. “Mm,” she hums, eyes closing as she rests her head up on her clasped hands, face to face with him. “Morning.” Her morning voice drives him crazy; raspier than usual and the sleepy edge sending tingles down his spine whenever she speaks.

He leans in, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. “Morning, sunshine,” he says quietly, his voice low and scratchy.

"You sleep okay?" she asks, most likely out of courtesy. He nods, snaking one of his hands underneath the covers and pulling her hips closer towards his body. She moves along with the flow easily, sliding towards him. Exhaling deeply, the smile on her face grows. "Good."

"I love you," he whispers softly, burying his face into her and closing his eyes. He could fall back asleep like this; hell, he could die like this and it would mean that he died happily.

With her, he wants to live in a sunrise.

. . .

Somewhere on down the line, the two of them make a pact. She’s lying with her head in his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tangling in her freshly dyed hair as the television mounted to his trailer wall plays faintly. He watches the deep red twirl around his fingers, almost like they’re scars, and just about yanks her hair through his fingers instead of threading through gently when she speaks.

"Marry me," she murmurs, and he feels his lungs freeze and his heart plummet into his stomach.

"Come again?" he chokes out, his voice strangled. Scarlett adjusts her head in his lap, her eyes searching his face. There’s a soft smile on her face, and signifies that she’s not kidding. If she had been kidding, hysterical laughter would have ensued almost instantly after the words left her mouth. She had yet to erupt in that infectious little laugh of hers.

"Yeah," she says airily. "I think you and I should get married." All of the breath is sucked out of his lungs, his head reeling as he tries to catch back up with her. Does she even know what that means? What that means to him? Surely she’s messing around with him, there’s no way she’d be serious. But there she is, staring up at him from his lap, looking up at him like he’s the sun and she’s never seen anything more beautiful and he knows that she’s not messing around. His heart swells in his chest, fingers now shaking profoundly as they run back through the mop of flames she has for hair and catches a strand, looping it around his finger. Already his mind is racing, and somewhere in the back of his head he’s screaming for it to slow down. There are always conditions, catches. He’s too busy thinking about Scarlett gliding towards him in a white dress, beaming ear to ear and her whispering that she loves him and he almost doesn’t hear her laughing at him. She knows she’s got his mind turning, and she finds it hilarious. There was his Scarlett.

"Okay," he finally breathes, attempting to play off the shaky sigh as a laugh. "Okay, we can get married. You want Downey to officiate?" He doubts that Downey has marriage powers bestowed upon him, but it cracks deeper in her smile, her eyes twinkling.

"Yes, and Evans can sing as I walk down the aisle," Scarlett teases back. She adjusts herself in his lap, sliding her head farther back across his legs. One of her hands creeps up her body, fingers trailing over the arm he’s got draped over her side. "I’m serious, Jer."

"I am too." He means it wholeheartedly, he’s just not sure if she knows that.

Her face falls into more serious expression as she gazes at him. “So if in five years and neither of us is in a relationship, you’d really and truly marry me?” she asks, raising one of her eyebrows.

"Sweetheart, I’d marry you now."

"Jeremy," she whines playfully, laughing.

"I’m serious," he argues.

"I know you are, that’s why I’m laughing." He moves the hand resting over her side lazily, finding hers and lacing their fingers together. Scarlett’s voice changes tone again, right back to all business. "Promise me though," she requests softly.

"Promise you what?" His eyebrows furrow together, and she turns her attention onto their entwined hands, fiddling with one of his rings.

"That you’ll go through with marrying me if the five years passes. That you won’t just…you know. Change your mind, I guess," she hums disappointedly.

"Hey." He grabs her attention back, her eyes drifting back up to where his face is. "If anyone has to worry about anyone changing their mind, it’s not you. You’ll find someone, sweetheart, I know it," he admits, and while he doesn’t like how it tastes coming out of his mouth, he knows that’s the bittersweet tang of truth. She’s young, successful, gorgeous, and there’s no reason for anyone to not want to spend every hour of every day with her. She’s perfect to him and to most of his gender as well.

Scarlett’s face twists uncomfortably. “No,” she insists. “I haven’t found anyone since Ryan. I’m a broken mess, no one seems to bother. No one really wants damaged goods.” He can hear the pain in her voice, and he knows now why she’s asking for his hand in marriage five years from now. It’s not because she loves him—well, it could be, but that’s not her principal motive. She’s scared that she’ll have to spend forever alone, that there’s no hope left.

Swallowing down his disappointment that it’s a reason beyond him, he untangles the hand from her hair and places it under her chin, tilting her head up as he presses a slow kiss to her lips. It’s not much of a kiss, but it’s enough to reassure her that he doesn’t think of her like that. He doesn’t; he finds the Scarlett that he knows to be an amazing person, the person he’d fallen in love with, Ryan’s tracks scattered over her and all. When he pulls away, he watches as her eyelashes flutter open, staring at him. “Promise me,” she whispers, demanding and hoarsely.

"Baby girl…" he murmurs, trying to find the appropriate response without scaring her off. Finally, after what feels like forever searching in her eyes, he opens his mouth. "Nothing would make me change my mind. Not when it comes to you."

. . .

In interviews, they’re not careful. God, being careful is probably the last of their thoughts as they just ramble on and on, the both of them laughing hysterically as they think about how Joss must be hitting himself in the head for putting a disastrous and easily derailed pair together for every interview for—well, just every interview.

The sexual references that the two of them throw back and forth are not done lightly, instead, it feels like the both of them have it written across their faces as they stare at each other much too long after an answer involving the other or break down into fits of laughter over questions that result in small reminders of their hookups. Every time he looks at her, he thinks of her tangled up in his bed sheets, every small crack made towards her costumes on set he thinks about her clothes in a pile on his floor, every look at him reminds him of the one she gave him the night before when she was telling him just how much she loved him. It was their own dirty secret, and not only were they doing a horrible job of keeping it, they were taunting the fact they even had one in the first place.

It’s not entirely his fault, nor is it hers. She can’t help the fact that he’s convincing and attractive, and he can’t help the fact that it’s impossible not to fall for her. Each night they get lost on the same path they did the night before, it’s just different hotel room and a different bed. Nothing makes him feel more alive than her body pressed against his, the wild look in her eyes and knowing that it’s only him who can make her feel the way she does. He’s sure they’re loud enough that there are regular complaints filed against them, but she’s vocal and he plays it up until it makes her see stars. Every morning when she’s pulling her clothes on, sitting next to him in interviews, he thinks of the way she looked the night before lying underneath him and crying out his name. It’s enough to leave him looking at her like she’s a meal, and she can’t seem to get a hold of the laughter that washes over her when she catches onto his looks.

While interviewers switch out, he gets risky and starts running his hand up her thigh, to which she swats away. He knows she’s thinking differently though, there’s no way she isn’t. During breaks and spare moments, he’ll grab her hand and lead her off to the bathroom or some secluded space and kiss her with everything in him. He’ll hoist her up onto sinks with her legs wrapped around his waist like a vise or he’ll pin her against a wall with little to no space between them, all depending on where they’re at. It’s why he takes a few shots each day before the interview; it’s all so much easier when he’s got alcohol in his system and he can blame his actions on something other than himself and his own selfish desires. She pulls away, biting down on her lips and whispers, “You’re so bad.”

"Only for you, baby," he replies huskily, his eyes twinkling as he crushes his lips with hers once more.

He’s often asked if he’s wearing lipstick by the guys or even by the interviewers who are too naive to know what could have possibly gone down in their absence, and his attention is on Scarlett swallowing her laughter, completely amused by the fact his face is as red as her hair once was, at a total loss for words.

She reminds him that it could be much worse, that she could wear red lipstick or leave a trail of hickeys down his neck.

. . .

He gets the phone call about the Walk of Fame exactly sixteen hours before the actual event, and she’s in an absolute tizzy over it.

"Scar, baby, breathe," he reminds her through the receiver.

"I just, Downey backed out and I’m panicking big time Jer, what the hell am I going to do? The coordinator keeps calling and I keep having to decline because I have no idea what to tell him, and I swear I saw a grey hair earlier—"

A peal of laughter escapes him; one of Scarlett’s finest talents is worrying to the point of extremity. “Scarlett, stop. This is what you’re going to do, okay? You’re going to call your pretty little coordinator and tell him that I’m taking Downey’s spot—”

"Jeremy no—"

"Yes," he coaxes, trying to get the message across that there’s nothing she can do to get him to change his mind. "You’re going to tell him I have a lovely speech written about how wonderful you are, and that I’ll see him and you bright and early tomorrow on Hollywood Boulevard. And then you’re going to listen to the beautiful speech that I write and you’re going to cry and then you can come back to my hotel room so we can spend some quality time together."

"Are you always a horny old man?" she jabs.

"Nope, only when you’re being a tease. Which is every hour of every day."

She laughs, followed by an immense sigh. “You have just saved my ass, you lifesaver you,” she admits. “I’m forever in your debt.”

"Well, I suppose I could think of a few ways you could pay me back," he teases.

"You’d better get your mind out of the gutter and get to writing—I’m expecting to be blown away by this beautiful speech of yours," she all but croons into the phone, his Scarlett slowly but surely returning.

"Goodbye, sweetheart," he sings, waiting for her to press the end button and hear the telltale click.

Jeremy slaves away over the speech he’s expected to have prepared, his mind knotted just as much as his stomach is. Public speaking is never an issue, but he was never speaking to the public about the only woman he’d ever loved as much as he loved his mother. He knew every word had to be meticulously selected and made sure that it didn’t sound too obvious, but wasn’t lifeless and the typical kind of congratulations. Nothing about Scarlett was typical, nothing, and that speech couldn’t be either. He sits at his desk, hand knotted in his hair as he tries to make the pen move across the paper, make ink flow in the most melodic of ways, just like she could get it to do whenever she opened her mouth. It takes roughly three hours to perfect the speech down to the last syllable, but boy, does he do it. He thinks of the look on her face as he rehearses in the mirror, trying to eradicate the wavering in his voice; tries to think of her undying beauty and her laugh and God, that smile of hers, especially when it’s directed at him. That night, he hardly sleeps, as he’s kept awake by the thought of knowing he lays it all out on the table for her tomorrow and won’t ever go back.

The suit that he drags from the closet isn’t the most glamorous, nor is it his newest, but it does the trick as he straightens up the tie and runs a hand back through his hair. He thinks he just might be more nervous than she is, bouncing his leg anxiously as the driver takes him to the Boulevard. That proves untrue the minute he sees her; she’s nothing but a bundle of nerves standing across the way. She catches a sight of him, a shaky sigh of relief escaping her as she flings herself into his arms. “Thank god you’re here,” she whispers into his ear. “I was scared something had happened.”

Rubbing circles on the small of her back, he holds her a little bit tighter. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world, sweetheart,” he reassures. “Shh, calm down, everything is alright.”

She finally manages to pull herself away from him, taking another deep breath and wringing out her hands. Looking her up and down for good measure, he can’t help but to be taken aback at just how beautiful she is. The black and white dress, her perfectly done makeup and the curls pinned back on her head; even though she’s visibly shaking, she’s glowing. “Sorry about that,” she apologizes. “I’m just a little nervous.”

"You have no reason to be," he tells her, his hand finding its way around her waist. "I’m the one who has to be nervous, what with reading this speech and all."

Her face lights up like a Christmas display, body relaxing as one of her eyebrows lifts. “How is that speech?” she asks, taunting him.

"I’m not one to brag, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to cry. I happen to have a way with words," he replies cheekily, the grin stretching over his lips.

"Do you, now?" Jeremy just nods in response, smile continuing to grow.

It’s a rather nice ceremony they have arranged for her, but he’s too nervous to enjoy it. His palms are sweating and his cool-as-a-cucumber facade is slipping away from him as fast as the note cards his speech is carefully printed onto in his hands. He stares at her from behind, like a blind man waiting for the sun, his insides melting fast. _It’ll be a miracle_ , he thinks, _if I can make it through this speech._ Heart thrumming loudly in his ears, he almost misses his cue to meet her on stage. She’s laughing at him as he makes his way up the steps, embracing him in a hug the moment he’s within arms distance over her. “Hey sweetheart,” he whispers over the sound of the welcoming applause. “Don’t cry on me.”

"In your wildest dreams," she teases back as she pulls away, but when he meets her eyes, he can tell that she doesn’t mean that one bit.

As he reaches the podium and sorts out his speech to where he can read it, the only thing that he can feel is Scarlett’s gaze tethered to him. It propels him forward, doing his very best to not stutter along through his speech—the courage shot he’d done in the car ride over was beginning to kick in—due to the fact it was only her. It’s only her that matters in that moment, it’s her paying attention to him and laughing at the little jokes he cracks and the sincere smile that spreads so far across her face it looks as though it’s not sincere at all. He glances over at her every few words to see her reaction, and of course, she’s as readable as a brick wall. She’s much better at masking her emotions, miles better at knowing how to keep someone on their toes with her vague choice of words and expressions. Jeremy on the other hand, just says as he pleases, and in this case, he’s almost having to take a page from her book so he doesn’t reveal to the world that he’s so in love with her that there is no world without her at the center.

Polite applause wraps up his speech as he walks to give her a congratulatory hug, and she’s trembling in his arms. The chaste kiss on her cheek he delivers was fully intended for her lips, and she’d only just turned her head in the nick of time. Leave it to him to keep composed throughout the whole speech and then almost break his rank with a simple kiss. His lips barely brush the corners of hers as he pulls her closer. “Damn you,” she whispers spitefully in his ear, voice shaking with tears on the brimming point in her own way of thanks.

"I love you," he responds, with as much sincerity that he as a human is capable of holding. Because it’s true, he means that. With everything in him, he loves her.

He waits by patiently as she gives her dedication, waits for her as she takes hundreds of pictures—all of which will turn out flawless, as she’s the focal point—and is waiting right by her side as they shove through the throngs of people waiting to capture the two of them in those priceless candid shots. Playfully, he slips his sunglasses on over her head and pushes them up on her nose as they wait for the car. She grabs onto his arms, laughing, and it’s such a beautiful moment that he swears it’s a dream and he’s fast asleep. “Look at you, Scarlett, such a little rockstar,” he laughs. “Got her own star now, what’s next in your oh-so-busy life? Touring the world? Doing some huge franchise? Finding a cure for cancer?”

She doesn’t have to tip the sunglasses down for him to know there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I think you know.”

Jeremy had barely turned the key in his hotel door before she’s all over him, hands ravaging and tearing away the suit, her legs snaking around him in order to hold him prisoner. “I love you,” she moans as he begins kissing down the side of her neck, back pinned against the other side of the now shut door. It’s almost a needy cry the way it falls out of her lips, like she’s not got any time left to say it and it’s all tumbling out, knotted and tangled up. “I love you, _god_ , do I love you.” He wants to laugh; this was the girl who wanted no attachment to begin with, this was the girl who had told him it was just sex, a friends with benefits relationship, and now she was sobbing a profession of love. He wants to tell her that he told her so, that he knew it would turn out this way, because the two of them are both so willing to succumb to their lust’s needs and find that one little something there in it, and it’s enough to fall in love with the other. He wants to tell her just how much he loves her too, how he wants to marry her and spend days upon days inside with her, how he wants to spend every moment basking in the light of her.

He doesn’t; instead he rips her second skin off and lets it fall to the floor around her ankles, swooping his arms underneath her and carrying her to the bed. This is their cycle. This is what they are destined to be bound to.

. . .

Fighting with her is not something that he plans, it’s the one thing that he tries to avoid. But she’s stubborn, and so is he, and they butt heads more often than not.

At first it’s little things, things that they’re able to look back at in twenty minutes or less and laugh about. It’s the typical bickering that they’re used to, nothing major. But it gets major, as the time runs on and emotions start running high and alcohol flows steadily. Things get twisted along the way, fear settles in, and their jealousy and possessiveness over the other is enough to set them off at the slightest moment. One look at Scarlett that lasts longer than a few seconds must mean she’s sleeping around, and texts from that model that he’s left unanswered must mean that he’s not being faithful.

He doesn’t want to fight with her. He feels like absolute shit when they get into it; especially after she whirls out of the room and he can hear her crying on the other side of the door. But with the two of them, it’s inevitable, futile to avoid what is. Just like everything, their fights are systemic, with her being the one to leave whether it’s her who is mad or is giving him space, and he follows after her. He remembers her heartbroken face as she sat on the staircase crying, the low settling feeling in his stomach as his eyes met her teary ones. Seeing her cry is something he can’t handle. He always holds her after their fights, and they stay in that inseparable state until they’re not mad or until they fall asleep. He never wants to go to sleep mad at her, but like everything with them, the lines always switch and cross and are erased to be redrawn and blur each time there’s a new situation, and he never knows where they stand. Boundaries are pushed and eventually, there are nights when he sleeps in the floor waiting for her to stop being so damn stubborn and come back inside.

Eventually the fights turn into wars, and they’re screaming at each other until they’re blue in the face. She throws her phone at him, he smashes glasses on the floor and spills wine everywhere. Their fights become more and more frequent, too; it’s like they’re at each other’s throats every day and it’s almost too much to bear. The exhaustion weighs on his conscience and he wonders if it’s even worth it anymore, because she acts as though it isn’t. Scarlett’s mood swings vary; sometimes one word sets her off and other times, she takes the punches and rolls with it. It’s the way she fights back that hurts him most. He feels like he needs more than just a strong something to numb all of the pain. It goes beyond the anger over the little things, it’s the heart-wrenching despair he can’t help but to feel when he rolls over in the middle of the night and he sees that she’s yet to return. Her side of the bed stays cold, and he stays drunk.

He starts to ask some of their mutual friends what the hell he’s going to do about her, his drunken slurs enough reason to take pity on him if his distressed stories and how he’s on the verge of hair loss isn’t enough to do the trick. Downey tells him that she’s a woman, and that she’s a woman who’s gone through quite a bit over her life. Emotions run high, things get misconstrued, and the female brain can sometimes be apt to act on impulse. Jeremy dismisses his opinion, since it’s clear he’s trying to defend her actions. Evans is even worse with trying to defend her, saying that she hurts just as much as she does whenever they get into it, because of how much she values their friendship. He says that she’s experiencing the same pain, she’s feeling all the same things. He bets she does, especially when the phone goes hurtling at his face or when she storms out and doesn’t call, doesn’t bother to let him know if she’s alive. Mark doesn’t even utter out a word, instead just buys another round of drinks. It’s people like Mark who get Jeremy.

But Mark’s drink or Evans’ and Downey’s attempts at defending Scarlett’s actions do no good in cushioning the blow when it arrives. It arrives with the accompaniment of all black clouds and a whirlwind of complicated emotion and a silence that’s so deafening, if it was possible and had he had neighbors, they would have filed noise complaints. When the conversation starts, every vicious word she utters out has the same effect of her taking a sledgehammer and hacking away at his heart. If it’s possible to die of a broken heart, he would have died after she finished her little speech. Words about how she had told him time and time again that she never wanted it to go past the sex and that it would have hurt him more than her were her excuses, but he went ahead and fell for her anyways. Sure, she might have said she loved him, but who was to say she meant it in the same way he did?

It was funny how quick her emotions fluctuated, and how it was always his fault. He tells her this, and follows by telling her that he doesn’t want to handle her in any way, form, or fashion, if she’s not willing to own up to her mistakes. Mistakes is a trigger word and she begins firing at him like it’s target practice. “You flirting at bars, talking to other women behind my back, making sure you have a back-up plan if all else fails, you don’t consider that a mistake?” she seethes.

"Well if you don’t love me, then why in the hell would you care?" he shouts. "Why would you care if I talk to other women, you shouldn’t care if I sleep with other women because as far as I know, you’re probably doing the same damn thing! I’m your back-up plan and we both know it; you know I’m willing to show you the affection you’re not getting enough of and I’m stupid enough to just blindly go along with it! I’m not faithful, I’m the only one making mistakes? How many guys did you go on other dates with, huh? How many other men did you tell you loved them while they stripped you down and let them give you what you wanted?"

"Don’t you turn this around me!" she screams, face turning red. "Don’t make me out like some scarlet woman!" He has to hold back the bitter chuckle at her irony. "I never made you a backup plan, I never ran off when you weren’t looking."

"And you think I did?" Jeremy asks, appalled.

"Not once did I ever do anything when we were together; I never slept with anyone else when I was with you, no one! You let that whore of a model into your bed—"

"—we were already pissed at each other, the fight—"

"—and all of a sudden that’s a valid excuse?"

"What do you care?" Jeremy roars. "You said it yourself, you don’t even love me!"

"I—"

"You don’t! You said it, right there, ‘ _just because I say it doesn’t mean that I mean it like you do_ ’. You were the one who said you wanted me all those years ago, you were the one who wanted friends with benefits, and I did everything I did because it was you; now you say you don’t love me after you knew that I had feelings for you? You don’t get the right to go back and change what you said before, Scarlett, you don’t get to act like I’m all of a sudden your property when some other name is thrown into the mix. You don’t love me, so it shouldn’t matter if I slept with no one or one other person or the whole female population. I have only ever loved you, but you don’t care, so what does anything I do affect you? If you don’t love me, then there’s no point! It shouldn’t matter!" He stops in his tracks, trying to catch his breath in the midst of the silence. She stares at him as though she has no idea who she is, tears bristling the corners of her eyes and her hands balled in white-knuckled fists, breathing almost as heavily as he. "It shouldn’t," he says softly. "It never mattered."

"Jeremy—"

"Maybe you should just go," he admits, unable to look back up at her once his head falls, unable to look in her eyes because he knows that he can’t cave back in this time. His subconscious tells him that there will be other chances where she’ll stroll back in his life like nothing ever happened between them and they’ll pick up where they left off. It’s just the cycle they go round and round in, it’ll repeat itself, just like each time before. She lets out a strangled sort of noise, and in his peripheral vision, he sees her stiffen, as if she’s all of a sudden out of place.

She goes, and doesn’t ever come back.

. . .

Big fights never turn out well, and he almost doesn’t ever want to see her again after she slammed that door. But movies happen, and the two of them are tied to the franchise for a certain amount of time. There’s no going back on that, no matter how desperately he wishes he could change it.

He doesn’t want to have to face her, not after their last fight. He doesn’t want to have to see her at award shows that he knows she’ll attend, because she’s a phenomenal actress, he doesn’t want to have to see her at movie premieres for the same universe they both partake in, he doesn’t want to do interviews or scenes with her or even hear her name. But of course, he has to. It’s a part of the job, and he knows that he’ll always be that guy who screwed it all up with Scarlett Johansson, as he sits next to her in some interview for the Avengers number 27. He’s well on his way out of the anger stage and into that dreadful, hopelessness despair that he knows is inescapable once he falls down, and he’s almost ready for it.

Evans gives him a call sometime after the Winter Soldier premiere, asking him how he enjoyed the movie and to congratulate him on some role that he’d gained, some role he didn’t even know he’d scored, mostly because he spent most of his days drunk. “Did you talk to Scarlett?” Evans asks, treading on choppy waters not even three minutes into the call. Jeremy knows that she must have given him the whole rundown on set, telling him all the tales of their fucked-up whatever-it-was, fling, relationship, whatever she considered it.

“No, I didn’t.” His voice is clipped when he responds, already turning off cold to the idea.

“She heard you were there, wanted to know if it was true.”

“It was.” There’s another pause on the other end, Evans probably grasping at straws for words to string together in order not to offend him. _If that’s his goal, he’s not doing much of a good job_ , Jeremy thinks.

“You know she came up with the idea for the arrow necklace, right?” Right, that little arrow necklace—supposedly her nod to his character, but what was he to believe? That could have meant anything, knowing her. It was a little tiny thing on a chain that had about a thousand different potential meanings, and the chances of it being about their characters were very, very slim. More than likely, it was her way of saying, _Look at where I am._ Maybe it was her way of saying _I’m sorry_ , but Scarlett didn’t say sorry. Nothing was ever her fault.

“Dude, whatever happened between the two of you, you’re going to have to just let it go. We have Ultron coming up sometime here later on.”

“Thanks for calling, Chris,” Jeremy says coolly, pressing the end button in record time.

. . .

There’s a ring in his drawer, a ring that he keeps buried in the ugliest and rattiest pair of socks in the back corner of the drawer that he hopes and prays is never found. It’s the ring that has no explanation to it; it wasn’t an impulse buy but it sure did feel like an impulse decision to keep it. It almost signified the fact he thought she was coming back around, that she’d knock on his door at some point with her arms folded over her chest and a worried look across her face, worried that he hated her. He was over their fight, but he wasn’t sure if she was. She didn’t seem like the type to forget easily. Of course, thinking things would go over so smoothly was nothing more than a fantasy, one that is much too dangerous to indulge in. He can list off every reason that letting her go was the right thing to do, that everything that had happened was for a reason and the reasons were all valid, but he can’t deny that his heart wants what it wants. It wants her.

There’s a ring in his drawer, a thin diamond-covered band with a large, exquisite gem in the middle. He had it custom made, every last bit of it crafted with her in mind. She deserved nothing less, he’d known that. On the inside of the ring, where the accent diamond stood, was a tiny engraving of the word ‘sweetheart’, the pet name he’d always had for her mostly to drive her insane, but had grown to have more love and affection behind it as the days flew past them. Everything about the ring was gorgeous, and he’d envisioned it resting perfectly on her hand, nowhere near as flawless as she was but it would come in a very close second, for sure.

She had no clue that he’d even gone out and purchased a ring. She’d never know, really; he made no intentions of telling her. He had the whole proposal mapped out in his head—he’d been as serious as one could get when it came to her. She always thought it was lust driving what connection they had, but he knew that it was so much more than that. It was love, the maddening kind that made him go crazy when she was near and even crazier when she wasn’t. The proposal was going to be simple, no flash mobs or serenading, although she probably would have enjoyed him singing for her. It would be him and her, just the two of them, somewhere nice and secluded; he’d always thought the beach, since she never saw enough of it, or a rooftop somewhere, where she could feel close to the stars. He’d stumble through the cliché speech about how he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, how he’d never loved anyone as much as he loved her, and he’d ask the questions. In his dreams, she said yes. In reality, she hardly spoke to him when they were in the same vicinity. It was just how it had all happened; it’s hardly like she can recognize him and he knows, he fucking _knows_ the woman he loves is sitting right there, but she’s a skewed, distorted image. She’s not the same.

The ring stays in his drawer, because he can’t bear to get rid of it or worse, give it to someone else when the time comes. It’s her ring, even if she’s never going to wear it.

. . .

She invites him to her wedding, and he can’t turn down the invitation. He knows there’s nothing there for him, but each time the pen hovered over the box that read ‘ _no’_ , he kept coming back to one reason to go. Her. Of course, he doesn’t know why she’s wasting her time and invitations on him. He didn’t invite her to his wedding. To be fair though, he didn’t hardly invite anyone to the wedding, it was strictly family. That was mainly because he knew if she showed up, he would chicken out. He wouldn’t go through with it. It had been all the reason to invite her when he’d asked Downey’s opinion, but Jeremy knew there was no way in hell he could do that. It was more than just him and her. It was him and her and his girlfriend and her fiancé and his daughter and her baby-on-the-way and he couldn’t shatter the dynamic. It was a recurring dream of his, but just like he could never push himself to make the move, he couldn’t send the house of cards into a pile.

Somehow, he manages to put on a blasted tux and go to her wedding, despite every ounce of burning desire for her still harbored underneath his skin. He figures if he brings along his wife, it’ll calm the storm and will keep him anchored to reality.

The minute he sees her, blonde curls falling gently and white dress flowing, hitting him in the face like a concrete block, there is no anchor. He cuts the rope tying him to his wife loose faster than it takes him to register Scarlett on the other end of the aisle, and he almost has to sit right back down out of fear his legs will lock and he’ll go crumpling to the ground. She glides slowly, just like the angel she is, and he can fear the little thorns of salt water pricking at his eyes. His breathing slows as he tries to focus on the music playing or the color of the petals the flower girl scattered across the aisle, anything but Scarlett. His anchor is gone and he’s soaring past reality all the way into a childish fantasy.

Time moves slowly, if it moves any, as she makes her way down the aisle. He pictures he’s on the receiving end, that he’s waiting for her and that he’s the reason she’s glowing the way she is, so bright that the sun dimmed in comparison. In his mind, he tries to warp the situation so that he can imagine it’s him that she’s marrying, that they had somehow found each other and there was no more hiding. He didn’t have to run from how he felt, because she’d wrapped herself in white for him, she was strolling down the aisle towards him, ready to begin their life together. But it’s impossible, when her eye contact is locked on him, ignoring Jeremy like every other wedding guest she invited. All she can see is him.

She passes by Jeremy in slow steps, a shy smile on her face when she spots him out of the corner of her eye. He swears that she stops walking, her head turning torturously slow as her eyes settle on him. It’s only for a moment, but it feels like an eternity as she catches his sight and drags it down with her, before looking back the way she was headed. He wants to blame it on her being a tease, but he knows that’s ending. It ended. And yet, that one little second of eye contact has him feeling like maybe there’s some sort of hope buried somewhere underneath the rubble, but what’s the point in trying right? She’s getting married. He’s married, a father, a piece in a family puzzle that he can’t just back out of, no matter how much he loves her still. No matter how elysian she looks across the way, no matter how badly his desires for her are craving for release underneath the thin veil of skin, no matter if he mistook the sparkle in her eye for a flicker of something.

His desires come raining down on him like tumbling walls as he sits back down in his seat, feeling as though he’s made of lead once his body hits the seat.

The night drags out in a tantalizing way; he can’t find himself to speak up regardless of the volumes his heart is screaming at him to do so and has to resort to delivering a frustrated kick to the back of Evans’ chair every so often to keep his mind off the fact Scarlett’s up there, saying vows that she should have been saying to him, making promises that should be to him, but are to someone else. His wife reaches over to hold his hand—perhaps she’s feeling the love and wants to bask in it as well, but he can’t bring him to truly mimic her feelings. He’s too angry, too crushed to feel something as strong as love.

He sits through the reception, fortunately with people he can tolerate and can make him smile despite the fact all he wants to do is make a run for it. Downey’s being obnoxiously hilarious, something a few drinks should make a lot better in Jeremy’s opinion, the wives avidly chatting about children, Evans giving some sort of deep and almost cryptic glare right through Jeremy’s soul. He knows that he can see through him like he’s cellophane, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s a mute point, and they all know it.

There’s toasts, cake, dances, all of the wedding traditions that he absentmindedly stirs the straw of his drink through mainly because he can’t take the thought of any of it. And god, he knows he’s got to be the worst wedding guest ever, because he’s acting like he could care less, but it’s because it’s true. The point for hiding it flew out the window the minute he saw Scarlett in that white dress.

The night drags as music blares, and he finds himself dancing with hardly any movement or enthusiasm. He has to look like the tin man, out there hardly moving amongst a small sea of people that were dancing fluidly, like nothing was holding them back. And he spots her, the blonde curls and the lipstick and that dress that makes her look celestial and he’s pushing through guests to get to her.

She recognizes him about halfway, that shy little smile creeping back over her lips as she falls into an embrace he didn’t even realize he was offering her. It’s all too familiar as the smell of her perfume fills his senses, a low tingling sensation inside his bones igniting at her touch. It feels like home, melting into her, but there’s something different about this hug as opposed to any other he’s gotten from her before. She’s fragile, breakable, and he can tell it this time because she’s not the warm, fuzzy Scarlett he knows and loves, it’s the colder version that’s trying to keep it strictly friends. Not much of a point in trying, since they’re both married. She seems excited to see him, beaming ear to ear once she pulls herself out of the hug.

"You came," she says breathlessly as she pushes a few locks of hair out of her face.

He shrugs, hands finding their way into his pockets. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he replies, and that much is true. He wouldn’t miss it, mainly because he thought he’d have had some balls to end the wedding before it even happened. He couldn’t do it though, not by judging the smile on her face. She’s soaring above him on cloud nine’s happier counterpart, the glow pulsating off her infectiously. He wonders how it feels.

They don’t get out much more small talk before the songs fade into another, a familiar one striking up. He knows this song and he can feel his heart cracking with every note. It’s the same song that came on the radio whenever he wanted to get on her nerves and force her to waltz with him around the living room, it’s the song that they held onto each other for dear life as they barely swayed with her standing on her tiptoes to rest her head in the crook of his neck, it’s the same exact song he’d him and sing whenever she was near. It’s like this whole day was designed to send him straight to the grave. Instead of asking—because really, he’s having trouble thinking clearly and coherent words aren’t forming, he holds out his hand and raises an eyebrow playfully. She doesn’t resist, but takes it.

His mind is whirling past him as the song plays, unraveling faster than he can keep up. He’s trying to distract himself because if he takes one long look at her for even a second too long he knows that he’ll break down and he’ll have to avoid her for the rest of his life and he would much rather look like he didn’t care than lose her forever. Her arms are daintily resting around his shoulders, looping behind his neck and his hands are on her waist, and god is he trying not to go insane. She’s smiling at him, singing all the words back to him in a vain attempt to make him laugh, and he laughs but it’s only to disguise his heart breaking inside his chest. This could have been them. It was so close, so tangible he could taste it but he was already light years past his chance. That white dress wasn’t for him. This wasn’t for them. “Jeremy,” she sighs impatiently somewhere near the second chorus, shaking him off of his train of thought. He stares back at her wide eyed. “What are you thinking?”

"I’m not thinking—"

"Don’t lie to me," she cuts him off. "I know you better than that." Readjusting her hold on him, she tilts her head to the side as a curtain of blonde curls falls with the motion. "Tell me what’s on your mind."

"I…" He starts to speak but he can’t. Not here, not like this. "I-look, it’s nothing," he insists in a strangled voice.

"Jeremy," she whispers, stepping a little bit closer to him. Her eyes find his, even though he’s fixed them onto to the floor, and they’re not just scanning over him, they’re reaching into the far corners of his soul. The look of realization settles on her face after a moment, the saddening in her eyes. He feels guilty, like someone’s let an anvil plummet to the bottom of his stomach, as he offers her a smile. Biting her lip, she unwraps her arms from his neck and grabs one of his hands off of her waist. She holds onto his wrist and drags him off of the dance floor, her head inclined towards the ground. He tries not to laugh because he knows he’s upset her, but he finds it funny that she, the only one in white, the star of the show, thinks she can escape unnoticed.

They end up out in a hallway somewhere, or maybe it’s a foyer but either way, they’re alone with the sound of the music thudding through the barrier of the door. She wastes no time in hitting him in the arm as hard as she possibly can. “You asshole!” she hisses. “Why would you wait until now? Huh?” She begins to accentuate each punch with a strangled word. “I! Wanted! You! I waited for you for I don’t even know how long! I…goddammit Jeremy, why would you not say something?” she wails, her voice cracking.

He smiles sadly. “No can do, sweetheart.” Jeremy points towards the door. “I see how he looks at you and I see how you look at him. I see how much you two love your baby. You honestly think I could do that to you?”

He watches as her lower lip trembles a little before she flings her arms around his neck. “Hey hey hey,” he reassures her. “Don’t cry. Shh, no, don’t…don’t.”

He buries his face into her hair, breathing in every last bit of her that he possibly can, enough that will be able to last him for the lifetime if that’s what it turns out to be. “Please don’t cry,” he whispers, his own voice thick as she stands on his toes, trying to get as much of him as she can get in her hands. She’s clawing at his shoulder blades and the back of his neck, scared he might let go if she dares to loosen up her grip even a little. He can hear her whispering a myriad of things, heartbroken confessions that she doesn’t want him to let her go, for them to get the hell out of there, to run before there really is no going back, that she loves him she loves him goddamn she loves him. He breathes in deeply; this is all he has wanted since she left but he can’t bring himself to do exactly what she’s asking. Instead, he can feel the tears prick his own eyes.

"Hey, don’t cry." He’s not in the foyer, he’s back there on the dance floor. The second chorus is coming to an end, rounding into the bridge, and she’s comforting him as he rests his chin on her shoulder and lets those tears roll down his face. His mind keeps betraying him, all the scenarios he hopes could come true springing back towards reality. Reality is them there, her in the white dress and him crying like he’s losing her forever. Because he is. He lost her a long while ago.

He’s biting down on his lip so hard that blood is beginning to draw, his hands trembling as he tries to keep something like a grip on her. She doesn’t say anything, just ever so barely moves her thumb in a comforting little circle over a sensitive spot on his neck as some hope for solacing him. It does little. He’s just unraveling faster than he can keep up with, all of his emotions coming out and fuck if Sonni or Romain or every goddamn guest at the wedding sees him crying, he’s going to feel even if it kills him right there on the dance floor. He’s watching all the memories flood through his memory on a projector in his mind; talking to her that day on the plane, the playful escapades off set, the nights in hotel rooms where they got far little sleep and too much wine in their system, the candles and the dinners in her dining room and the physical intimacy and the little notes left scattered everywhere and the Walk of Fame and the I love yous whispered in ears or shouted off of balconies to miles of nothing, and it’s gnawing him down to his core. And she’s anchoring him, just like she always has and always will.

Just like that, the song is over. He lets go of her, just like he knows he has to eventually, wipes his eyes—he can feel the gentle pad of her thumb sweeping underneath one of his eyes, the innocent smile on her face enough to melt him, and rests a hand on her shoulder as he prepares to thank her for the dance and return to his seat and the utter misery that follows. She rolls her head to the side, resting her cheek against his hand. “Love you,” she offers airily, thanking him with flashing all pearly whites and red lipstick and a look in her eyes that goes unmatched.

He attempts to disguise the sadness with a sheepish smile, knowing that her words have no meaning in the caliber and capacity he so desperately needs for them to be. “You too, sweetheart,” he responds, his voice ground to gravel as he withdraws his hand from her shoulder. “You too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed! Feedback is always appreciated, whether you share it here or on my Tumblr. Thank you tons, my loves! ♥


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